


and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

by holograms



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, M/M, Post Reichenbach, empath!John, everybody has super powers!, invisibility!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 20:37:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time that John meets Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock figures out what John’s Ability is in less than two minutes, and Sherlock says it aloud as a statement, not a question.  Instead of commenting on how saying it out loud was rude, John straightens his posture and asks, “So, is that yours is then?  Knowing other people’s Abilities?"</p><p>[AU where (mostly) everyone is born with super-powered Abilities]</p>
            </blockquote>





	and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

**Author's Note:**

> Title from e.e. cumming's poem ["i carry your heart with me(i carry it in"](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/179622).

The first time that John meets Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock figures out what John’s Ability is in less than two minutes, and Sherlock says it aloud as a statement, not a question.  Instead of commenting on how saying it out loud was rude, John straightens his posture and asks, “So, is that yours is then?  Knowing other people’s Abilities?”

The only consulting detective in the world scoffs — and a tickle in John’s mind that’s like a smirk presents itself and it tugs at the corners of his own mouth — and briefly looks up from his microscope to John.  “No, but knowing yours is obvious enough.  And don’t frown like that.  I can usually deduce an individual’s Ability.  If they have one, of course.”

John stands stunned while Sherlock switches the objective lens and adjusts the fine focus of his microscope and says, “Invisibility.”

“What?”

“You were wondering what my Ability is.  I know yours, so it’s only fair you know mine.”  Sherlock raises his head and places an elbow on the table.  “Potential flatmates should know each other’s, don’t you think?”

John nods, and wonders the implications of what it would be like to have a flatmate that could be invisible at will.  Though, it couldn’t be worse than Harry’s.  “Kind of a high class Ability.”

“Not really.  My brother was quite disappointed when mine manifested,” Sherlock says as he removes the slide stained with something that John could not and did not want to identify from the microscope.  “Although it has proved quite useful in my lifetime.”

Amusement swells in John’s chest before he pushes it away, and instead of saying what he thinks he should be saying — _I know nothing else about you_ — he asks, “Do you have to take off your clothes, or do they become invisible too?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.  Of course my clothing turns invisible.  Having to run around London naked would be horribly inconvenient.”  Sherlock stands and swings his coat over his shoulders.  “The name’s Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street.”

 

John definitely sees Sherlock as he falls, and before, as he stands on the roof.  Before, John feels fondness curling around his heart, and regret that forces a sob out his throat.  “Sherlock, please.  Don’t,” he begs.

“I’m sorry, John.  I’m sorry that you have to feel this, too.  Goodbye.”

Fear, and one of the most helpless feelings that he has ever felt in his life hits him, and John can’t sort out his own from the ones that he is picking up from Sherlock.  He pleads and wishes _no, I did not just witness my best friend die_ and John is overwhelmed — he runs and tries to reach for Sherlock, to touch his hand to find any remnant of him, but there’s nothing that John can feel other than the crushing of his own heart breaking.

 

He moves out of 221B after the funeral.  The service itself was quiet and lovely; Mrs Hudson coaxes the most beautiful flowers to grow around the graveside, and no press interrupts (which John expects is due to something Mycroft did).  However, everyone’s grief echoes and John has to try to block it out, because his own is already enough.

After everybody has left, John stands alone next to Sherlock’s coffin, and he thinks how odd it is that Sherlock is _right there_ but John doesn’t perceive anything about him at all.  John remembers times that he would be standing in the kitchen making tea while Sherlock’s irritation over whatever was annoying him at that particular moment — a case, Mycroft, how the weather kept making his violin out of tune — would crop up and John’s forehead would scrunch up in the shared annoyance before he would laugh and brush it away, because that was simply Sherlock.

Nothing now, though.

Sometime later, Lestrade walks up next to John.  The two stay silent for a few minutes, until Lestrade clears his throat and says, “I am sorry, you know.”

John glances to Lestrade, and sees his eyes and he knows that the other is as regretful as he admits.  John allows himself to feel Lestrade’s _sorry_ , probably more than what would be considered respectful; he feels the emptiness that only seems to grow, making everything hollow, only to be filled with bursts of shame, guilt, regret, all tumbling over and building, but never enough to overcome the emptiness.

“I know you’re sorry,” John says, because it’s true.

“Come on.  It’s time to go,” Lestrade says, grabbing John’s arm.  “Don’t make me zap you.”

Even though John knows that Lestrade’s threat is a farce, he goes along with him.  (Of all the times Sherlock was threatened, John only saw the Detective Inspector make good on his promise once — it was only a small electric shock that Lestrade punished Sherlock with, just enough to surprise him to get him to not touch the evidence during a particularly stressful case.  John had laughed, Sherlock’s hair stood up on end for an hour, and Sherlock kept bringing up “The Abuse” for weeks.)

He turns around once to look as they leave.  He wishes that he feels more than his own sentiments, the ever present cluster of emotion resides heavily in him, and an indescribable feeling, a mixture of _sorrowandlove_ that hasn’t left since Sherlock had.

 

It’s Harry that comes up with the idea.  She’s drunk, but only partly so — her double is about, drinking shot after shot of tequila at the table in the corner of the sitting room while the other Harry is sitting on the couch with John.

John points to the version of Harry across the room.  “This doesn’t count as staying off the liquor.”

“Shut up.  She’s holding all of our feelings, and then at least one of us gets to numb our feelings.  It’s all done so my big brother can’t magic them out of me.”  Harry leans on John’s shoulder.  “You could tell me about your feelings, though.  About Invisaboy.”

John furrows his eyebrows at Harry’s name for Sherlock, and shakes his head.  “If you keep this up, I’m going to go talk to her,” he says, nodding to Harry across the room, who is currently slumped at the table with her hair falling into her face.

“No, you don’t wanna do that.”  Harry eyes meet with her doppelganger, who has lifted her head for a moment to look across the room to share a pointed gaze before returning to her previous position.  “Have you…thought about it?  Looking for one?” Harry says, the sister that is curled up next to him.

John shifts and looks down at her.  “One what?”

“You know,” Harry says, her voice vibrating against John’s chest.  “Somebody that can bring him back.  A resurrector.”

The thought of Sherlock being alive again makes him hopeful, like all his problems have been solved and it will be impossible to ever be upset again, but then he remembers—

“That’s not possible.  You know that,” John snaps.

“I know it’s not _allowed._   But it has been done,” she whispers.  Even though Harry has always been good at hiding her emotions from John when she can hide them away in her double, some unintentional ones sometimes still slip through, like the worry that is hanging around her now _._

“Yes, well.”  John runs a hand through Harry’s hair, attempting to calm her, but his sister’s worry still lingers in his mind, weighing him down.

 

John moves out the next day and goes back to Baker Street.  Mrs Hudson is overjoyed, and for the first time in weeks, John smiles, full of elation and it burns in his chest when she hugs him.

In his absence, flowers have overridden the Baker Street residence; big, leafy vines invade the foyer and beautiful flowers stand in pots out front and next to Speedy’s.  People that walk by comment on them and offer to pay for them, but Mrs Hudson shakes her head and says that they aren’t for sell, since they’re Ability produced.  John wishes that she would sell them — Ability produced items that are frivolous and material are not banned from sell — but Mrs Hudson thinks it’s dishonorable to sell the effect of her Ability going on overdrive since  post-Sherlock.  But John is running out of places to place plants around his flat without it looking like a street florist, and even though he tries to remember to water them all, Mrs Hudson comes in daily to liven them up and sometimes, bring in a new pot.

“ _Hibiscus moscheutos_ ,” she says, placing a potted plant on the floor next to some daisies.  “Native to North America, and also known as a Rose Mallow.”

John looks up from his laptop at the pale colored petals and says, “Oh, more out of region ones.”

“Yeah,” Mrs Hudson says, sighing.  “I guess I really should get the license to use my Ability for profit.  Could do with the extra cash to go on that cruise with Mrs Turner.”  Before she leaves the flat, she stops by a vase of lilies that are on a table next to the coat rack.  The white and purple flowers were one of the ones that suffered from the oversight of John’s care and are now wilting.  Mrs Hudson’s eyes start to brim with tears and something that John identifies as nostalgiareverberates.

“I’ve always liked lilies,” she explains as she gently touches the flowers, and within seconds they gain back their bright color and are no longer hanging over the edge of the vase.  “But they gave Sherlock the sniffles, so I never set them out.”

She leaves the 221B flat, but her nostalgia is still felt, and it floats around and the memory is so strong that if John closes his eyes, it’s almost as if Sherlock is there.

 

(John was six years old when he was taken by his parents to get his Ability registered in the database.  He held tight to his mother’s hand and tried to hide behind her while he adjusted to being around all of the new people all of their new emotions.

“We didn’t think much of it at first,” John’s mother explained, “he kept telling us how people were feeling, but we just thought it was a kid thing, yeah?  But what made us realize was when he threw a temper tantrum every time his little sister did.  Johnny outgrew temper tantrums a long time ago.”  She glanced down at her son, and gently smoothed his hair down.  His mother’s love and pride bubbled in his chest, and John said, “I love you too, Mum.”

The smartly dressed man behind the desk nodded as John’s mother spoke, and then he said that John will go have to participate in some tests — “regulation rules” — and not to worry.  The man gave off a calm and even tone, so John trusted him.

The tests weren’t difficult, just tedious, and when they were completed John was returned to his parents.

“No restrictions,” they were told.  “John can’t project emotions on people, he is just super sensitive to those of others.”  He looked down at John.  “Basically, he’s a human sponge.”

Years later, when John worked to perfect his Ability, his main source of frustration is over the scope of his empathy.  His mother attempted to help.

“It doesn’t matter how far someone goes.  Emotions are here,” she said, touching his chest, “not here,” that time placing a hand on his head.  No matter how much coaching John received, he could never pick up on people more than a few meters away.)

 

One month after he’s settled back in the flat, John seeks out Mycroft.  He’s thought about what Harry suggested — to bring Sherlock _back_ — and really, it doesn’t sound as insane as he thought it did to begin with.  The absence of Sherlock is still immense, and John finds himself desperately wishing that Sherlock is having one of his moods where he’ll sit somewhere in the flat, invisible, and sulks enough that he knows that John will feel it too, and John is left to walk around the flat aimlessly and swing his arms in front of him with the hopes of giving Sherlock a good whack in the face, and saying, “Sherlock, I’ll find you eventually.”  He wishes this, that all he has to do is find Sherlock.

But that’s not possible — he saw as Sherlock fell, felt the last things that Sherlock felt (a person’s last feelings were the worst that John has come across; his father wanting to express what he felt, but was unable to because he was trapped in the restrictions of his feeble mind and the frustration that made John sick; the dying solider that he didn’t even know the name of, and the fear he had when he knew that that was it, there was nothing more of his life).  But Sherlock is gone, and John is left with nothing besides a flat with tons of flowers and a feeling of _sorrowandlove_ that never leaves, the everlasting mark of Sherlock on his heart.

John decides that if someone knew of somebody with the Ability to make death no longer an issue, Mycroft would.  He finds him in that bloody club of his, and John walks quickly past the other members and suppresses the feelings thrown at him ( _contempt, annoyance, pity_ ) and he shuts the door to the private room with a snap.

“I wondered how long it would take for you to visit me,” Mycroft says, and motions to the chair across from him.  “Sit, please.”  John does so, and he leans back in the comfortable chair.  John swallows, and is hesitant because Mycroft Holmes was one of the few that emotions did not often find their way to John.  It was rumored that those with psych-classified Abilities were good at that.  Personally, John wondered if it was because of that, or because the elder Holmes didn’t allow himself to have an abundance of emotion.

He patiently waits for Mycroft to prompt him to speak.  “So, you owe me a favor,” John says quickly.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow.  “I do?  Whatever for?”

“You know why,” John says sharply.  He leans forward, and places his palms face down on his knees.  His hands are sweating, and he wipes them on his trousers.  “Because of you, Sherlock isn’t here anymore.”

“I did not push him off that building.  I do know what you are implying, though.”  Mycroft traces a pinstripe on trousers with his finger.  “There wasn’t anything I could do about it.”

“But you could have,” John protests.  “You can’t tell me that you were above using your Ability on Moriarty.”

It’s a few moments before Mycroft speaks.  “I tried.  However, some things are…unresponsive to the power of suggestion, no matter how skilled the person may be.”  Mycroft grins, before settling back into a frown.  “James Moriarty was much stronger than I had anticipated.  Telepathy like that having gone unchecked was dangerous.  He could pry things from the mind, and push past mental barriers that one placed.”  Mycroft blinks and for a second John experiences Mycroft’s anxiety — rough and pooling his stomach and making his heart beat faster — before it’s retracted a few seconds later.  _Empathy whiplash,_ John calls it.

Mycroft waves a hand.  “But that’s all water under the bridge, I suppose.  That is why there’s the Regulation Acts to control those with strong Abilities like that...  Anyway, what is this favor you ask of me?”

John clears his throat, and looks around the room with unease.  “Are we being recorded?”

“No.  Feel free to speak whatever comes to mind.”

John nods.  “I need to find someone that can resurrect.  Bring somebody back into the living.”  John has thought of how to phrase it; saying, _bring him back from the dead_ sounds horrible and not good.

Surprise that isn’t his jolts through John, making him gasp.  Mycroft glares at John.  “I would ask who you intend to bring back, but it is obvious that you would want to use it on my brother,” Mycroft says, and John looks down at his shoes, and he can perceive that Mycroft feels a tad offended.  “You know that it’s illegal to do such a thing, and those that have that Ability that are rare.”

“I figured you’d be able to locate someone,” John mutters.

“That’s not the point.  Do you know why those that have Abilities like that — time manipulation, premonition, making the dead alive — hide away?”  Mycroft leans forward.  “Because it’s not _right_.  It defies nature.  You’ve read the studies done on those that were brought back, _after_?”  The _after_ is emphasized, and it’s harsh and gritty in John’s mind.

“Yes,” John starts, “but Sherlock’s different.”

“Don’t think that remembering what it was like to be dead would affect my dear brother any differently.  It’s traumatizing, Dr Watson.  I thought that as a man of medicine you would understand that concept.”

John inhales, the _sorrowandlove_ prickling in his chest.  “I suppose.”

“Of course.”  Mycroft reaches forward and grabs John’s hand, running a thumb over his inner wrist, and John looks up because he’s pretty sure that this is the first time that Mycroft has ever touched him.

“Now go home,” Mycroft says evenly, and the feelings of _home Baker Street now_ weighs heavily on his consciousness.

“Okay,” John simply says, but he doesn’t move from his chair.  Mycroft narrows his eyes.

“Forget about this conversation.  Everything will be better soon.  Do not mourn for Sherlock Holmes—”

John blinks and is starting to feel better than he has in ages, the _sorrowandlove_ is starting to lessen a bit, but regret that is not his slips through, and then John remembers what Sherlock had taught him months previously—

_“If that brother of mine ever tries to use his Ability and “suggest” that you do something, just mentally yell.  I’m sure you could manage that, yes?”_

—so John forces the compulsion out his mind and jerks his hand away from Mycroft.  Closing his open hand into a fist, Mycroft eases back into his chair.

“That was unexpected,” Mycroft comments, “but fascinating.  Are you sure you can’t project emotions as well?”

“I am positive.”  John stands up.  _Basically, a human sponge._   “You can’t make me forget him.”  He clings to that feeling that has become the norm from him, the pain and the sorrow and the love.  John can never share emotions with others, only ever cursed ( _blessed_ , his mother used to say) to feel those of others.

“It wasn’t to forget.  Just get rid of some of the pain.”

“It’s mine to carry,” John says, before storming out of the room.

 

Months pass into a year, and that is somewhere around the time when Sherlock Holmes is cleared as an innocent man.  Tests are concluded that prove that Moriarty had influenced certain people to carry out objectives against Sherlock, and that Sherlock was in no way connected to any of the crimes that he was accused of.  Whatever Moriarty wanted, he got — all he had to do was force someone to give it to him.

“About sodding time,” Lestrade says, slamming his glass down, causing drink to slosh over onto the surface of the table.  “Now it’s only time until I get reinstated back into my old job.”

John leans his head on his hand, blocking out the intoxicated people in his proximity.  He doesn’t know why he agreed to go out for drinks with Lestrade and _Anderson,_ of all people.  He blames it on Lestrade’s fleeting feeling of hope that he’d agree to go that convinced him.

“Well, hopefully I do as well.  I’m tired of working in the lab all the time as a lackey,” Anderson complains.  He slumps back in his chair, and his hair grows longer and shaggier to the point where fringe is threatening to cover his eyes, and a scruffy beard starts to appear on his chin and cheeks.  John makes a mental note that Anderson has trouble controlling his Ability when drunk.

Lestrade soon breaks into hysterical giggles over Anderson’s ridiculous hair growth, and John catches the infectious laughter from him and soon his borrowed laughter becomes genuine when Anderson starts to sulk.

 

It’s three years, three weeks, and five days _after,_ when John no longer counts the months that has passed, that John enters his flat and immediately picks up on _tension_ , slicing into his being.  John sets his shopping bag down next to the miniature cactus that Mrs Hudson gave him last week, and slowly walks into the room.

“I know you’re in here, so you might as well show yourself.  I have gun,” John says, adding at the end.

“That would be a feat, since you actually aren’t carrying your firearm, which you haven’t been doing for months.  That’s quite stupid of you, really.”

John whips around just in time to see Sherlock appear seemingly out of thin air.  John blinks a few times to make sure it is real, hoping that if he closed his eyes that Sherlock wouldn’t disappear when he reopened them.  However, Sherlock remains, and John _notices_ Sherlock, full of _relief_ and _joy_ and he is familiar and it’s definitely, definitely Sherlock _._

“Mycroft said he wouldn’t use an Ability to bring you back,” John says.

“Bring me back?  Oh, you mean from death.  I didn’t die.  I’ve just been gone for a bit.”

“Well that is obvious.”  John strides over to Sherlock so he’s only a few inches away from him.  “Did you have fun while you were gone, while everybody else here was suffering?  People cared about you, they were _devastated._ Mrs Hudson’s Ability intensified tenfold because she was so affected.”

“I figured that’s why it looks like a botanical garden in here,” Sherlock mumbles, looking around the room.

“I had to feel all of it!” John shouts, grabbing the lapels of Sherlock’s coat.  “Not only did I have mine, but I had to deal with everyone else’s too, and their pity and shame and…”

John quiets, and Sherlock looks down at him.  “I had to leave,” Sherlock says softly.  “I had to take out Moriarty’s league.  People were in danger.  You were in danger.”

The advantage of his Ability helps him, lets him know that _yes_ , _Sherlock is telling the truth_ because the _insistency_ that Sherlock has that hopes John will believe him feels like it’s stabbing his brain and the _fear_ that he won’t believe him makes his spine tingle.

“Yeah, so.  So did you accomplish your task?” John asks.

“Of course.  I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”  Sherlock reaches up and takes John’s hands in his.  “I’m so, so incredibly sorry.”

John leans into Sherlock, and immerses himself in Sherlock’s emotions; _sorrow_ flows through, the feeling crushing and John can tell that it has been present for quite some time, and the _hope_ that John will forgive him keeps battling its way through no matter how much Sherlock tries to push it away.  John smiles, and says, “It’s okay, I understand,” and John is almost knocked over with Sherlock’s uncontrolled relief; John wishes that he could show these emotions to those that say that Sherlock has no feelings and is a pure sociopath.  It wraps and coils around him and John doesn’t ever want to let go, it’s all _acceptance_ and _fondness_ and—

John realizes that the _sorrowandlove_ that has been present in his consciousness had really been Sherlock’s, and he thinks that maybe his mother was right, that maybe for some, distance doesn’t really matter to know how somebody feels.

**Author's Note:**

> Before I started this, I didn't really know it was a Fandom Thing that John was commonly written as an empath? but I guess that means it's fitting then. Also, the idea of Anderson having the ability to control his hair growth was based on a conversation I had with a friend a long time ago that Sherlock was probably horrified at Anderson's pilot!hair and beard.
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated :)


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